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For some reason, it is widely known that democracy in which you elect the president, is superior to monarchies of all kinds. Don't say you didn't saw it coming.

One doesn't have to exclude the other. Plenty of constitutional monarchies around...
 
Monarchies of all kinds I said. Constittional ones count in that too. And still people would rather have a president.

err... try looking at the 1999 Australian referendum on becoming a republic. The result was in favor of remaining a constitutional monarchy.

Sometimes monarchs are popular.
 
Electing your government is a load of crap in the USA anyways, because of the broken electoral system, and the fact that representatives and senators don't listen to the populace and campaign promises are almost a form of joke nowadays. I'd much prefer a King to these knuckleheads, at least he'd get something done, even if I didn't like it, (Unlike our congress, who sits around and gives away medals half of the day, and the other half is spent arguing and filibustering just for the fun of it, along with a healthy dose of bribery and corruption).
 
For some reason, it is widely known that democracy in which you elect the president, is superior to monarchies of all kinds. Don't say you didn't saw it coming.

Constitutional Monarchy is the best system of government in existence.
 
Back on-topic. This is NOT a thread for discussing which government is best. Only comments on the AAR itself again.
 
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First, sorry for the long delay in replying--it's been a busy week, and the start of next week promises to be just as busy. Likely there won't be a main update from me until midweek at the earliest. There's a chance something special might come through between now and then, but we'll have to see. :)

RGB - Isaakios? You mean Ioannis? Completely unintentional Dr. Who reference, but nonetheless. :)

Nikolai - No good empire goes without some overly powerful bodyguard unit... it's almost part of the definition of empire! :)

AlexanderPrimus - Some shenanigans involving someone named Alexandros...

Qorten - Quite a batch, actually...

Nehekara - Some nobles evidently just can't take the honor and responsibility of ruling part of my empire. So like the just ruler I am, I relieve them of said duties. Usually with the point of a sword. Aren't I merciful? :D

Enewald - Well back in 1263 Arghun had India and Transoxiana... he's had seven years to add to that...

zheliazin - Yeah, it's officially ridiculously large! Welcome to the story!

Tommy4ever - You can chalk up the military reforms to a long list of "well, it was necessary at the time" or "it sounded like a good idea" type of things that usually bring empires down.

asd21593 - The next one is about a third done... only a few more days!

Zzzzz... - There will be pachyderms in this chapter. :) I'm going to try to occasionally zip to a different part of the world as the rest of the story unfolds, but there's so much to cover I can't promise I'll get everywhere that people want to see... and yes, there is an era after the Komnenid Empire called 'The Rest of History' :)

Leviathan07 - The state apparatus is strained to the brink as is. Adding Persia would probably be a fatal straw to add to the camel's back. Just because it'd be a bad idea doesn't necessarily mean emperors won't try it though... we've seen Komnenids do crazier things...

Kirsch27 -AFAIK I made no mention of how long his reign was--I tried hard to completely avoid that. No sense in spoiling surprises. :)

Vesimir -Gabriel is on the frontier, and he is stuck between a usurper and the Mongols. It just means his life won't ever be dull!

FlyingDutchie - Oh, Andronikos has definitely heard of the Praetorian Guard, he just thinks that of course this time around he and his successors will do better. I mean, surely Ioannis is loyal, and surely future emperors will only put truly trustworthy confidantes in charge, keep the Oikoi well maintained and paid, and surely etc. etc. etc... ;)

von Sachsen - That was von Franken's whole plan for Persia from the get-go... the shock-absorber for whenever something on the steppe goes bump. I don't think he planned for Gabriel being as cantankerous a border guard as he's been, but you can't argue with the fact that other than Genghis himself during the first invasion, no Mongol has threatened the central Empire directly...

Frrf - Mods hath spoken, so I'll deftly side-step republic-vs.-constitutional monarchy, other than to say both would likely seem alien, strange, or downright silly to our Komnenids...
 
Kirsch27 -AFAIK I made no mention of how long his reign was--I tried hard to completely avoid that. No sense in spoiling surprises. :)

Maybe I'm misunderstanding this part ------>1266 would bring more than a new heir to the Empire, however. It would also bring the second significant crisis of Andronikos’ short reign—one that was met with the same ruthelessness that came with his rise to power.
 
Maybe I'm misunderstanding this part ------>1266 would bring more than a new heir to the Empire, however. It would also bring the second significant crisis of Andronikos’ short reign—one that was met with the same ruthelessness that came with his rise to power.

'Short' in that instance refers to the amount of time he had already been on the throne, not the overall length of his reign...
 
'Short' in that instance refers to the amount of time he had already been on the throne, not the overall length of his reign...


Oh, thank goodness! I thought that at first, but the update continued to read more like a history book, and I thought maybe it was talking about his overall reign.

(Also, as a side note, I just realized this thread has gotten a LOT longer in the last few reigns, probably due to more comments rather than more posts though. Gabriel has been a character for over 100 pages now!)
 
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“Anything that inconveniences an enemy is of at least some good to me.” – Andronikos Komnenos

February 7th, 1271

Konstantinopolis



“Papa, look what I can do!”

Andronikos Komnenos, Emperor of the Romans, fought to keep his face stern as his eldest son Demetrios balanced a spoon on his nose. The Emperor let himself look up at the boy’s nursemaid—it was her absolutely aghast and thunderous look that sent him over the edge. He snickered.

“Come now,” the Emperor heard his wife say, voice stern and motherly, “Princes do not do such things!” Andronikos looked up at Cecilia, and saw the impish twinkle in her eye—she too wanted to laugh, but someone had to be the responsible parent.

Andronikos leaned back with a glass of wine and smiled. He didn’t care. Affairs of state occupied his day from morning until night—there was almost always some meeting, some dignitary, some rebel that needed his time, his money, or both. It was only now, seven years on, that Andronikos appreciated how much of a daily workload his stepfather had carried for decades. Ioannis could fill parts of it, but much of the busy work Andronikos found himself doing until the wee hours of the morning.

So any time he could spend with his two young sons was sacrosanct, not to be ruined by decorum, formality, or pomp. There was more than enough of that in the public eye and private meetings. With his sons and Cecilia, Andronikos had his few chances to be a 23 year old father, and not the Megas Komnenos.

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“You were saying?” Andronikos prompted his wife once the proper admonishing was done.

“Ah, um…” Cecilia looked up, trying to regain her train of thought. “Yes! I’ve gone ahead and made plans for a banquet this Friday. I’ve kept the guest list small—Metropolitan Aquinas…”

“Oh God in Heaven,” Andronikos murmured under his breath. Aquinas never shut up, and it took all of the Emperor’s willpower not to intellectually browbeat the blowhard! Cecilia frowned at him—Andronikos looked down and picked up a pea with his fork.

“…the Megos Domestikos,” she went on, “Prince Palialogos and Prince Kosaca, as well as Lord Symeon’s wife…”

“…decent talking company,” the Emperor agreed. He cared not about necessity—if his wife was arranging for them to come to one of the private Friday banquets held in the palace, there was always a necessity that brought that guest onto the list.

“And finally the Frankish ambassador,” Cecilia finished the list. At Andronikos’ sour look, she shrugged. “He’s freshly arrived, and was personally picked by Gaston Capet. It would have been insulting to not invite him to a banquet in his first week here.”

“No doubt,” Andronikos swirled his wine cup and sighed. Insulting the Franks was not what the Empire needed—not when every source from the ports of the Mediterranean to the great fairs of northern Europe pointed to weapons, armor, and grain flowing into France. Not when Andronikos’ own ambassador in Paris said the King of the Franks was marshalling a great host outside of his capital, his servants refusing to say where it would go. The ambassador had even tried to schedule a personal dinner with King Hugues—the man was loud, brash, and could never keep a secret—but the King’s bastard brother Gaston had personally intervened to prevent the dinner from happening.

That rang alarm bells in Andronikos’ mind. There were murmurs of problems between the Franks and the Scots, but for the life of him, Andronikos could not deduce why the Franks would need such a huge force for nothing more than Scotland. Wasn’t it a backwards, poor place? No—they were moving south, or at Burgundy, one or the other, and Romanion had to be ready in case the blunt sword of King Hugues decided to try to bludgeon its way to the Occitan coast.

But the Roman Emperor had no doubt who was truly planning whatever this expedition was. Andronikos had heard of Gaston, and counted himself fortunate that he was merely his brother’s advisor, and not the King of the Franks himself, otherwise Andronikos had no doubt that the Franks would have already moved. Instead, Hugues had contented himself with gathering his great lords to Paris, hosting great feasts and jousts, even as the Frankish armies grew and grew.

“How many Franks are there papa?” Demetrios asked.

“Not as many as you would think,” Andronikos smiled as he lied to the young boy. Ioannis’ people had been insistent that counting the probable levies that would join the army during its march Hugues easily had 30,000 or more—without the Norman barons in Angleterre. Ambassador Medici insisted that there were at least 20,000 in the Ile de France already. “Not enough to cause us a problem.”

That, Andronikos hoped, was not stretching the truth. Romanion had far more massive forces, but they were dispersed over an entire empire, watching threats from Spain to Persia. Fortunately Andronikos’ stepfather had continued the policy of the now defunct Western Emperors by propping up independent Latin duchies in Occitania, the most powerful of which were Aquitaine and Toulouse. While cantankerous, loud, and annoying, they were useful simply as roadblocks. If Hugues’ armies were massing for an attack on Spain or Italy, he would need to take Carcassonne, Toulouse and Avignon first—sieges that would give the Italikon and Hispanikon Stratoi time to rumble to life, and crush the Franks with sheer numbers alone.

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“If only they paid scutage like the others…” Andronikos murmured aloud between munching on peas.

“What?” Cecilia looked up.

“The Latins in the Occitan lands,” Andronikos sighed. “I still think when their ambassadors came to Konstantinopolis last year, we should have demanded those bastards follow Nomos Andronikos as well and form tagmata instead of their levies… What?” he asked as his wife chuckled.

“Andronikos, most of the dynatoi try to dodge their responsibilities and payments as much as possible! My father knows many of the Occitans! They’re more stubborn than even he can be!” Cecilia laughed. Even now, it sounded like music to his ears. He couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t call them bastards,” he grinned.

“Bastard!” Nikephoros yelled, grinning at his father.

“Oh, no, my boy!” Andronikos managed somehow to keep a straight face, even as he heard his own wife snicker. He knelt down next to the child, still beaming proudly at his father. “Now, you can’t go calling people that in public,” Andronikos said gently. “That is a bad word, a word that grown-ups use, but little princes do not.”

“Okay daddy!”

“And you can’t send Ioannis after them for simple tax evasion,” Cecilia’s smile faded somewhat.

“I know,” Andronikos patted his son on the head, then returned to his seat. “That’s like using a mace to open an egg. Besides, he’s off in northern Italy right now, scouting out the newly of age Despotes. You know,” he bit into one of the salted quail’s eggs—the salt burned in his mouth slightly, “Konstantinoth thon!” He swallowed—it landed hard in his stomach. “What was his name?”

“Michael,” Cecilia said, sipping her own wine. “The imperial treasury is looking forward to his investiture as Despotes in two months…”

“Please,” Andronikos sighed, then nodded to their two sons. Cecilia stopped in mid-word, then nodded. It wasn’t often that Andronikos was able to dine with his children. There’d be no business at the table—not today. The Emperor quickly turned back to his youngest son. Nikephoros was struggling with his food.

“Nikky, here,” the Emperor was up and over before the servants could move. Days like today, he relished the chance to be a father, away from the pomp and ceremony of being the most powerful man in the Christian world. Gently, he put a fork in his son’s hands. “This is how you hold the fork. And this,” he guided his son’s hand as Nikky whined, “is how you..”

Andronikos jumped when the doors to the chamber creaked open, unannounced. He set Nikephoros down and spun around in one fluid motion to berate both the stupid courtier that broke protocol, and the chamberlain for letting the man in. Instead of a frightened member of the court, he saw a squat man with beady eyes and a bulbous nose, with a crack across his mouth for lips. Andronikos’ angry words died in his throat, even as the chamberlain stormed into the room after the interloper.

“Master Syrenios!” the irate official bellowed.

“Let him in,” Andronikos raised his hand, before looking at the nursemaids for his two sons, and sighed. Family time, once again, would have to wait. “Take them, please,” he gestured to the boys. Nikephoros looked like he was about to cry. “Don’t worry,” the Emperor walked over, scooped up the two year old and settled him into his nursemaid’s arms, “we’ll see you shortly.” He waved his hand, and as if by magic, servants began clearing the trays and plates of dinner as others led the two imperial children away. They knew of Antemios Syrenios. The conversation would likely be long, and neither the emperor nor his wife would stomach cold food.

“Syrenios,” Andronikos sighed.

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“Majesty,” the man smiled, and bowed with dark grace. The man glanced over at the Empress, and nodded to her as well. Andronikos caught the hidden meaning, and gave a quick nod—whatever was to be said, she could hear it as well.

“Majesty, I have a message from Antioch by raven,” Syrenios bowed again.

“By raven?” Andronikos raised an eyebrow as he settled into his chair. He glanced towards his wife, who shrugged. “I thought the mousakoi used pigeons for their urgent work?”

“Some, Majesty,” Syrenios bowed, “but this fellow—Chaldikes is his name—uses ravens. They’re larger, more intelligent, and fly further than any pigeon. No hawk would dare assault a raven—many will quickly take a pigeon.”

“Point,” Andronikos nodded, making a mental note of all he said. More of the mousakoi, maybe even the palatioikoi entirely needed to use ravens if this was true. Master Bacon would know about such things—an imperial visit to the old man later tonight was in order.

“So, this message?” Andronikos prompted.

“Chaldikes reports that several of Gabriel’s men visited the court of your cousins in Antioch,” Syrenios began. “Being a clever fellow and having a wooden leg, Chaldikes played a fool and challenged them to a drinking competition. After it was over, he managed to glean some information from them—namely, that your nemesis is stirring once more.”

“Once more?” Andronikos settled back in his chair and stretched. “The old lecher hasn’t stopped stirring since we knocked him out of Anatolia! What is he up to now?”

“Chaldikes says the Persian’s emissaries tried to ply your cousin Simeon with gold and the title Sebastokrator,” Syrenios said grimly. “The men blurted out that cohorts were presently in Edessa visiting the court of your dearest cousin Alexios,” the man said without hiding any of the sourness in his voice, “and some are travelling as far as Egypt, hoping to stir ancient Theodoros into taking up arms once more.”

“They visited Alexios?” Andronikos asked, voice suddenly somber. For a moment, the Emperor glanced over at his wife, before looking down. When Andronikos had inherited Edessa on his grandfather’s death two years before, Cecilia had been the one that insisted that the costs of maintaining Edessa and Coloneia as appendages to the crown outweighed their admittedly rich tax incomes. So Andronikos handed one of the richest themes to his landless but cash-blessed cousin in return for a healthy ‘donation’ of no less than one thousand warhorses and coursers for the imperial stables—an exorbitant sum.

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“Yes, Majesty,” Syrenios nodded uneasily. His master had personally recommended that Alexios would be a ‘benign’ appointment. The man was wealthy, covetous of the dignities of being a prince, but lacking the sense to ever really be a threat.

Or so said Ioannis Angelos.

“However,” Syrenios quickly added, “Chaldikes insisted that neither Antioch nor Edessa seriously entertained the offers from Persia. Indeed,” he smiled thinly, “the drunks were attempting to drown their sorrows before they returned home to their master empty-handed.”

“…and no doubt a waiting lash,” Andronikos chewed his lower lip momentarily, before looking up at Syrenios. “How confident are you in this man?” Andronikos frowned.

“Very confident, Majesty,” Syrenios bowed his head briefly. “I’ve known him for years, I’d stake my life on his words.”

“Good,” Andronikos nodded, tapping his fingers on the table. What to do about Gabriel? He’d been sure that Gabriel was out of commission for ten years at the least, by which time the last letters from the Polos assured him that affairs further east would come to head. Three years… that’s all he’d need. But if Gabriel was sniffing around now…

Andronikos looked up after a moment. Cecilia watched him, frowning, while Syrenios had patiently placed his hands in front of him, waiting for his emperor’s orders with little more than a raised eyebrow.

“So what shall you do?” Cecilia asked quietly.

“I’m not sure,” Andronikos sighed, staring out the window, towards the East. He was missing his right hand—without Ioannis present, with his directness, honesty, and deviousness, Andronikos couldn’t help but feel slightly naked. Thee years…

…then, a sudden as a bolt from above, he had it. Something simple, devious, that would keep Gabriel tied in knots for years, Mongols or no! Andronikos smiled slightly, then turned back to his waiting henchman.

“You know Arabic, yes?” Andronikos glanced the big ugly man over once more. The nose was too flat, hair too dark for a Magyar or someone from the Rus. Maybe he was Italian?

“Which dialect does Your Majesty prefer?” Syrenios’ smile held no warmth.

“Do you know the proper forms and etiquette of the Caliphal Courts?” the Emperor raised an eyebrow. When Syrenios nodded his head, Andronikos smiled just as icily. “Take a letter,” the Emperor pinched his nose. “To Amīr al-Mu'minīn, Caliph Abbas ibn Mohammed a-din Salah, Successor of Mohammed, Blessed Be His Name…” Andronikos couldn’t help but smile wryly as he listed off, by memory, the entire cacophony of titles and merits for a man in exile in the distant land of the Turks. “Messenger of the Prophet, I write you…”

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“You’re writing to the Caliph?” Cecilia squeaked. Andronikos sighed at the pause—he managed to not roll his eyes.

“No, I’m forging a letter that will go to the Caliph,” the Emperor clarified. “Now, where was I? Ah… I write you to say that my conscience…”

“Majesty.”

“What?” Andronikos snapped.

“How will the Caliph know this is a legitimate letter?” Syrenios asked.

Andronikos blinked for a second, before nodding slowly. Yes, that was a problem. The Emperor looked down for a few seconds, ideas rushing through his head, before he remembered a ploy he’d planned long ago. Was Gabriel dire enough a threat this time to use it?

The question was answered in less than a second, before the Emperor nodded to one of the numerous mute servants standing around the room. The man came over, and the Emperor the proper words in his ear. He nodded, bowed, then walked into the adjacent study. A minute later, he returned with a rather plan wooden box, which he handed into the imperial hands.

“What is that?” Cecilia wondered aloud after several moments of silence as the Emperor rummaged through the contents.

“Abbas has no idea what my signet ring might look like,” Andronikos muttered, rummaging through the box till he found what he was looking for. It was an ornate ring, a single band of gold with Rhomanion carved in miniature letters on the outside. Andronikos glanced it over, before holding it over to his wife. “So I shall send this. It looks legitimate enough.”

“But Andronikos, I’ve seen this before somewhere,” she asked, looking the ring over. “Won’t someone…” Cecilia started to ask.

“No, they won’t know it’s from me,” Andronikos smiled. “Remember Christmastide two years ago?” he held the ring up again. He watched, bemused, as his wife pulled his hand closer, then the look of comprehension that came across her face.

“The gifts to the dynatoi…”

“…that I told you expense did not matter,” Andronikos’ grin became huge. “This is why. I made several dozen extra to keep myself. And with every komes having a ring like this…”

“…perfectly untraceable,” Syrenios nodded, taking the ring from the Empress’ hand. “Majesty, you were saying in the letter?”


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May 18th, 1271

Rayy, Persia


Alexandros Komnenos the Younger, Prince of Persia, uneasily shifted on his throne. The previous Governor of Rayy had been Theophylaktos Kastamaris, a man known for little other than his massive bulk. Alexandros—barely five feet two inches and likely only one hundred and ten pounds when sopping wet—always felt like his predecessor’s immense wooden throne would swallow him whole. Even as courtiers handed him the documents that ran his first appointment as a ruler, the Prince fought to resist the urge to kick his dangling feet, like a child at the dinner table.

“…a large retinue of Turks arrived in the city today,” Alexandros’ majordomo said quietly. The Prince only half-listened—there were always retinues of Turks, Mongols, Indians and all other manners of exotic peoples travelling through Rayy. It lay on the main coastal that eventually went south of the Caspian, the chief northern route into Persia and thence Mesopotamia. It didn’t help that Nestor Tetragonites was a hopelessly boring man. Normally the Prince let Agnes de Perigord, deliver important documents to him, but she was in Isfahan, attending to important business.

“Have they been shown in and given courtesy?” Alexandros cut off his adviser’s endless list of who was who in the collection. It wasn’t likely important.

“Ah… yes, Your Grace,” Tetragonites bowed nervously, “though one of them insists on seeing Your Grace, by name, as immediately as possible.”

That made Alexandros’ eyebrow raise. He hadn’t held this appointment for more than three months, and in truth he wasn’t likely to stay here long. The training of the future Lord of Persia, possibly the whole Empire, would onlny begin in far off Rayy. For someone to request him by name…

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“How long has he been waiting?” Alexandros asked.

“Since this morning, Your Grace,” Tetragonites bowed again. The Prince frowned. This man had asked for him by name, yet he was kept waiting for half the day? The Prince leaned close to Tetragonites.

“Send…him… in!” Alexandros hissed, slapping the courtier in the back of the head. The man looked positively hurt, but stumbled off towards the twin wooden doors to the throne room. Slowly, they creaked open.

“Well this is a poor way to treat a guest!”

Alexandros looked up, instantly recognizing the man who spoke Greek with a slight, lilting Turkish accent. He was huge, over six feet all, broad of shoulder, dressed in a kaftan of the finest silk as he strode into the throne room. The giant started to bow, but not before Alexandros had leapt off his throne and bounded over to give Prince Selim of the Turks the biggest bearhug his small frame could muster.

Other princes might have tried to show decorum, to wait, but Alexandros didn’t care. He had no reason to—people talked about him already, they always had! He was the eldest grandson of Gabriel the Lion, and the only one that seemed physically healthy enough to succeed, so no one talked about him in his presence—but he knew they talked. Other royals may have dabbled with men, but he was the only man of royal descent he knew of who wore eyeshadow and occasionally painted his nails. Oh, he knew how they twittered, and how they gawked!

But none of them laughed, none, would dare to laugh.

The last person to do so had been a young dynatos from Calabria, sent by the Prince of Salerno to secure a trade deal for Persian horses. Some said Mario Luccio was a bright, young fellow with a daring wit and a quick blade. His wit caught him the ire of Alexandros two years before. The then fourteen year old prince challenged him to a duel for the affront to his honor. Luccio’s throat caught the tip of Alexandros’ blade a mere ten seconds after the duel began—and courts from Persia to Spain learned a deadly lesson.

Do not make fun of a prince’s eyeshadow, when that prince is openly reckoned as one of the best swordsmen alive even at his tender age.

Selim, however, was different. The son and heir of Sultan Sulieman, he’d been sent to Isfahan at the age of 10, and was raised alongside Alexandros, his future overlord. Alexandros was sure that, alone in the court, Selim didn’t mutter about the prince’s eyeshadow, or his other ‘eccentricities’—if only because the son of the Sultan had experimented alongside Alexandros with some of them…

“Out, all of you!” the Prince waved off prominent courtiers and servants, before turning back to his friend. “How are you?” Alexandros asked once the necessary bear-hug was finished. “It’s been…”

“Six months!” Selim laughed as well, before looking his friend up and down. “My God, what is that you’re wearing?”

Alexandros grinned and spun ‘round to put his attire on full display. While his double-brooched scarlet tunic of silk with golden threads of Persian lions was worth a fortune, as were his ermine lined tyrian purple boots, they weren’t the item he was most proud of. That honor was reserved for the cloak that swirled behind his form, made of then, crushed velvet dyed a brilliant lavender hue.

“That’s blinding,” Selim smiled, mock covering his eyes.

“I hope my opponents do that!” Alexandros laughed. “An easy thrust below the arm and…”

“Hope your…” Selim’s japing look became serious. “Alex, you aren’t seriously going to wear this in a fight, are you?” When Alexandros nodded his head, Selim’s face grew even more serious. “That’ll make you a target!” he complained. Selim had always felt protective of his smaller friend—even if Alexandros was far more adept at fighting than even the Sultan’s giant son.

“Of course!” Alexandros grinned, stopping his twirling. Selim’s look of confusion only made him laugh even harder. A few servants glanced over, but Alexandros didn’t care. “What?” Alexandros sputtered, “I want them to know exactly where I am!”

“But…”

“At first, it’ll be a lure,” Alexandros said. Selim blinked in the way that told Alexandros his friend wasn’t sure how to react. The Prince sighed, putting an arm around his friend’s back—his shoulder was far too high. “Eventually, after some have… learned from the error… the rest will flee from it on sight!”

“That,” Selim nodded to the outfit with a smile, “would make me flee, that’s for sure!”

“You?” Alexandros snickered, slapping his friend on the back, “The Giant of Zaranj? Your surname means ‘lion,’ I’m sure you’d live up to that name in the face of lavender velvet!” Alexandros laughed, before putting his arm around his friend. “In all seriousness,” the prince’s smile stilled some, “what brings you to Rayy? I thought you’d been granted a governorship by your father?”

“I was,” Selim nodded, “Balkh itself.” He nodded towards the doors of the throne room. “It’s part of the reason why I’m accompanied by six hundred retainers!”

Alexandros blinked, partially surprised. Yes, Selim was the presumptive heir of the Sultan, but the Sultan had plenty of capable sons. Alexandros had only his sickly brother Isaakios, and no sisters. His uncle Nikephoros had no children at all. So while Alexandros stayed heir to the throne despite being caught en flagrante with none other than Prince Selim…

“Balkh?” the Prince asked, smile momentarily fading. So, Selim was right—his father would overlook the indiscretion so long as Selim married. Part of Alexandros’ mind wondered how much Selim truly liked his young wife—they had a child on the way, but the Prince knew that meant nothing—he’d been married for two months, done the deed for the Empire, but never once did he like it, nor his wife. He frowned, thinking about her constant complaints he was never in her apartments.

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He looked up, and saw his friend’s smile fading as well—that was no good.

Time to say something lively.

Alexandros smirked, then looked around. Once more the various courtiers seemed not to be looking. He smiled impishly, then gave a flowery bow. “I am sorry! My lord!” he added with all the mock gravity of a comic farce. Selim laughed, and Alexandros added, “So how has your charge been, Keeper of the Caliph?”

“Incidentally, it’s why I’m here,” Selim’s face instead grew even more serious. Alexandros frowned.

“I do not understand,” Alexandros’ smile left as well.

“He is with my retinue…”

“Your…” Alexandros blinked, eyes flashing towards the window. The size of Selim’s accompaniment suddenly made all too much sense. “Ah… um… what is the occasion?” Alexandros said, before masking his confusion by grabbing a cup of wine from a passing servant and downing it. His friend frowned, clearly confused. After a moment, Selim reached into a pocket of his tunic and pulled forth a piece of paper.

“By this letter…” Selim whispered, handing a sealed parchment to Alexandros.

Alexandros took the parchment, already opened, and read the contents. As word followed word, and each sentence piled on top of the prior, an avalanche of confusion, then worry, tumbled through the Prince’s mind. Alexandros scanned the letter once, then twice, then a third time, more perplexed, more anxious, with each reading. He knew his grandfather couldn’t have written it—the seals were wrong, even if the contents weren’t preposterous.

There was no reason that Gabriel Komnenos, the rightful Christian Emperor in Konstantinopolis, would declare himself a servant of the Muslim Abbasid Caliph, and invite leader of the Muslim world to once again take residence in Baghdad…

Alexandros looked up—Selim stood in front of him, arms crossed, worry on his own face. Clearly, he’d expected a warmer welcome to this news. Alexandros swallowed—he needed time! Gabriel Komnenos needed to know what was happening here in far off Rayy—and time to decide on a response. Alexandros knew his grandfather was in a tough space—a quick glance out the window saw the people of Rayy already gathered around the massed retinue outside—word had probably gone out that the Caliph was in the city. If the Persian ruler went along with the obvious forgery, he would lose all chance at Konstantinopolis. But if he rejected the Caliph, he risked alienating his people to the point of rebellion...

“I…I need to send for word from my grandfather,” Alexandros said quickly. “We need to find out what route is the safest to Isfahan, and thence to Baghdad.” He mentally winced at the excuse, but the die was cast. He ran with it. “Um, the Caliph can stay in my palace for the time being…”

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So Andronikos has thrown out a snare that puts Gabriel in a tough place—give up Konstantinopolis, or anger his own people? What will Gabriel chose? Is the choice even that clear cut? And the Franks appear to be moving—where? And what will Arghun do with all of this rancor going on next to his border? More to come, when Rome AARisen continues!
 
Time for a nice two-fronted war if you ask me :D. Strong move by Andi, having the Sunni (and Turkish?) Caliph run amok among the Shi'ite Persians. Nothing like interfaith strife to destroy national unity.

Is Albrecht still alive?
 
Andronkios, stirring up trouble again. What did the Caliph ever do to him anyway?
 
Gabriel might as well as die due to old age...
Persia is a Empire of its own now.
By the way, where are the classical royal guards, the Immortals?
If Gabriel be to Roman to use them, Andronikos might not mind having his personal special revenue. :p

Ravens?
Soon someone might be deserving the title Prince of Ravens....:D
 
You're just awesome. I'm starting to think you're spoiling me. :D

There is nothing about that update I didn't like. Alexandros is all kinds of awesome I wanted him to be, and even Andronikos managed to gain some points from me.

Also, I have a feeling Ulrika will grow on Alexandros and they'll eventually start liking each other. If they have to be together, they can at least make it pleasant. ;)
 
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Andronikos seems to be doing well, both with his family and his duties.
Alexandros might not be as incompetent as he could have been, but he obviously lacks the gravitas required to be the emperor. Additionally, pretty purple cloaks do NOT belong on a battlefield.
I wonder what sway the Caliph actually still has, now that he lives in Shi'ite Territory?
 
Why are alot of people talking about Persia as a shiite area? Historically it was for the most part Sunni well until the Safavid takeover in the 16th century. Moreover, one should point out that the Nizaris and Ishmaelis - the few shia in Iran proper fled to Egypt earlier.